


Games We Play

by devera



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed III - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It might appear that a man like Birch has a man like Haytham Kenway under his control, but, ah, there lies the attraction. Birch always did like to take risks, as long as the rewards were worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> I'd not read _Forsaken_ when I originally wrote this for a fill at the AC kinkmeme, and at the time I imagined the book was going to involve a lot of Haytham being awesome and Templar-y until he discovered his best bud Birch had actually betrayed his family and ruined his life and hidden it all behind a smile and friendship all those years. Which of course would make Haytham simultaneously mad enough to go kill Birch (a lovely irony) while making him aware he'd built his life on a lie but was too old to do anything about it. Well, I did read the book finally, and there aren't even words to describe how disappointed I was that it was not that. Not even close.
> 
> Anyway, I digress. Just imagine Borden's book was more like the book in my head, now imagine a porny interlude after the opening scene of the game, and that's pretty much what this is.

"How was the performance?"  
  
Birch doesn't move at the sound of the familiar voice, although in truth his heart is of a sudden beating something fearful in his chest. Once again - and somewhat rudely, he thinks - he is reminded of how deadly his friend is, how terribly, marvellously efficient at killing he has become. Not a single member of their order can even come close to his talents, his very desirable and useful talents which he himself has only had a small hand in helping realise, and for perhaps the hundredth time since they met Reginald Birch is ever so glad Haytham Kenway is on their side.  
  
"You already know how it was," Birch says mildly, marking down the last of the goods to be transported on the next ship to the colonies in the ledger before him. "For you ruined it quite spectacularly. There hasn't been an assassination at the Royal in, I would guess, twenty or thirty years. Shame. I understand it used to be all the rage once upon a time."  
  
"Hmm," Kenway agrees idly, and comes into the room proper. The man only leaves and enters by conventional means when they've company, but he would have known full well that after tonight the Fleet Street residence would be deserted of all save himself, and quite frankly, Birch had half expected him anyway. His family did have a taste for the dramatic, when all was said and done. Besides, if the way he's draping himself gracefully against the corner of Birch's desk, sleek and powerful like some kind of wild and exotic jungle cat, is any indication, he didn't come here just to scare a few years off Birch's life.   
  
"It wasn't the best contralto I've ever heard," he tells Birch loftily. "I likely did you a favour. Well, another favour."  
  
Birch sets his Bion pen down and leans back in his chair at that to favour Kenway with a quelling look.  
  
"Contralto? How terribly droll of you. Besides, is it favour when it benefits us both?" he asks pointedly, to which Kenway cocks his head to the side in an affectation Birch has cause to know - intimately - and smirks.  
  
"Now, Reggie," he says, his voice still moderated; the direction of his gaze anything but. "Are you still referring to the function of my office, or have we moved on to topics more... personal?"  
  
"My dear Haytham," Birch chides. "You should know by now that the two are one and the same."  
  
"Ergo," Haytham concludes dryly, "the reason why I couldn't have killed Miko on his way  _to_  the Royal. Anyway, you haven't asked. Would you like to see it?" It seems like a change of topic, but Birch knows it's not. "I believe I have it  _somewhere_ about my person..."  
  
He begins patting himself down distractedly like an old man looking for his spectacles and Birch laughs lightly at that. Haytham is in a fine mood it seems, but then again killing always did get his blood up, and Haytham with his blood up always did get Birch's blood up too.  
  
"'Somewhere about your person' you say?" he repeats, and swings the chair around so that he is no longer trapped behind his desk. In truth, with Haytham in any mood it pays not to be at a disadvantage. "Then I suppose I will have to look for it. Although, really Haytham, you're a little old for a game of Hide and Seek, don't you think?"  
  
Haytham abandons his search and smirks again and rolls around the edge of the desk until he is standing between Birch's knees.  
  
"Nonsense," he scoffs lightly. "My entire bloody order was based on it, if you've forgotten. And need I remind you, I did work for this prize. It's only fair you do too. Otherwise, where's the fun?"  
  
Haytham's measure of fun and other people's measure of fun are not entirely the same, Birch knows. Not that he's ever had a problem with that. He splays his hands across Haytham's thighs just above his kneecaps – the muscles are hard and lean beneath the squeeze of his grip – and presses his thumbs against the inside of his knees, as if to urge Haytham's legs to part.  
  
And then he starts slowly patting him down.  
  
Haytham snorts out a soft laugh as Birch's hands pat down to his shins. Birch is fine with his amusement for now, since Haytham knows the rules of this game and knows what happens if he breaks them. The action requires Birch to lean closer in order to reach. It brings his face very close to Haytham's groin, but Haytham doesn't move, and Birch rewards him with a light mouthing kiss to the bulge before him. Haytham breathes in sharply, and Birch smirks and starts patting his way back up again on the inside of his shins, his touch heavy, clinging, slow, all the way up Haytham's rather fine legs, up his thighs, until his hands are brushing that soft, vulnerable place where the other man's balls nestle against his thighs, until Birch can feel against his palm the firm dimensions of Haytham's cock. Haytham hums an encouraging sound, but Birch smirks to himself again and moves on.  
  
"It appears to me this object is well hidden," he sighs after a moment, where his hands rest on Haytham's hips, thumbs rubbing circles against his hip bones under the heavy layers of his clothes. "And that I will have to take more drastic measures."  
  
"Do tell," Haytham drawls. "Although what with the way you conduct a search, we're likely to be here all ni-"  
  
Birch does so enjoy it when Kenway forgets, even for a moment, who it was that trained him. Assassin by birth Haytham may be, silent and efficient and more deadly than all of Birch's operatives in London combined, but Birch still has a trick or two up his sleeve.   
  
The struggle is fierce and brief, but there was never any doubt of the outcome, and it ends with Birch's books on the floor and his ink and quill spilled, his chair kicked on its side and Haytham face down over his desk as Birch twists one arm – the one not smearing through the spilled ink – up behind his back.  
  
"Bastard!" Haytham spits, half panting, half laughing. "This is my best coat!"  
  
"I'll buy you another," Birch promises indulgently. "To match the breeches."  
  
Haytham tries to twist his head around to look at him. "I don't need new- Ah."  
  
Birch grins and holds in front of Haytham's face the blade that during the struggle found its way to his hand from its place in his right boot, and then quite deliberately brings it down and lays it firmly against the small of Haytham's back.  
  
"Reginald..." Haytham begins warningly, as if he is in any position to issue warnings. "Now, that's going a bit too far, don't you- Oh, blast." This because Birch had used the time while Haytham had been speaking to flip his coat-tails up out of the way, turn the knife in his palm, slide the blade in under the waistband of Haytham's breeches and, with a jerk of his wrist, slice through the rather finely made cloth right down the centre seam, small clothes and all.  
  
"Blast," Haytham says again, slightly more breathlessly this time, as Birch drops the knife and then palms across the exposed flesh of Haytham's rear. His skin is warm, surprisingly soft and remarkably clean and Birch stares at it for a moment, at the dimples framing his tailbone and the line of shadowy invitation between the firm, round globes of his arse, before gripping the seam of the breeches in a fist and giving them a good hard yank.  
  
The fabric gives to the back of Haytham's thighs, exposing his hole and balls hanging nestled between his spread legs and Birch reaches under and fondles them, squeezing gently until Haytham's spine twitches into a roll that flattens his hips out a little more, spreads his legs a little more, as if presenting himself to Birch for the taking.  
  
"Well, it doesn't seem to be here, either," he observes mildly, and Haytham stifles a laugh against the blotter.  
  
"Then I suggest you keep looking," he retaliates. "Although, come to think of it, I may have left it- Oh. Left it in the carriage."  
  
Birch raises an eyebrow as he settles over Haytham's back, pressing his trapped arm a little harder just to hear him hiss in a breath even as the fingers of his other hand trail down between them, and Birch doesn't know what he enjoys more – the feel of his own hand trapped between his filling cock and Haytham's muscled rear, or the unchecked shiver Haytham gives when Birch rubs his fingertips across the warm, soft skin behind his balls before sliding up to brush lingeringly, meaningfully against his hole.  
  
"Liar," Birch asserts softly, as Haytham seems to do his level best to not squirm beneath him. "You remember what I do to liars." And without warning, Birch straightens up, raises his hand and brings it sharply down upon Haytham's rear in a slap that must have hurt because it makes Birch's palm sting.  
  
"Christ!" Haytham utters on a harsh gasp of breath, his whole body jerking at the contact before turning to try and glare at Birch, unsuccessfully, since the colour in his face speaks far more of arousal than irritation. "Reginald Rutherford Birch. Don't you dare."  
  
Birch grins. He has never been the kind of man to be warned away from unwise paths, but on this particular occasion there is something he wants a great deal more than to see what might happen if he truly applied his hand to Haytham's backside.

"Then _I_ suggest you fetch the grease," he tells Haytham. "There's a jar in the drawer by your left hand."  
  
He smirks to himself as Haytham struggles to reach the drawer in question, decides that Haytham isn't struggling nearly enough and hooks his foot around the chair turned over beside him until he can pull it close enough to reach without releasing Haytham's still pinned arm. While Haytham is dragging the draw open and rummaging around inside for the necessary item, Birch drags his chair back in so he may perch himself on the edge of it behind Haytham, lean forward and apply something somewhat less punishing to the flesh bared before him.  
  
"Dear God!" Haytham chokes, freezing. "Reggie, what-"  
  
Birch smiles and licks at Haytham again, spreading him open with his free hand, spiking his tongue in an obscene parody of what he will do once Haytham manages to fetch the God damn grease, and Haytham shudders underneath him and utters something that sounds remarkably like an airless 'bloody Christ'. Birch chuckles against him and that earns him another encouraging shudder, which only makes him want to delve deeper, makes him want to see exactly what it might take to reduce Haytham Kenway to a swearing, writhing, wanting mess, to possess him down to his base soul. They have screwed aplenty before, but they have never attempted such… intimacy, and Birch very much likes the way Haytham is panting and trembling, his breath hitching as if he might actually let out a sound unbecoming of a gentleman. Birch digs for that articulation of Haytham's desires, plunges and presses with his tongue, rhythmically, using a great deal of spit. His chin is moist, his lips tingling as they drag against Haytham's warm skin, and Haytham's well-known fastidiousness extends this far too it seems for he tastes musky and clean as he clenches and relaxes and twitches against Birch's mouth.   
  
"Reggie," Haytham is saying, his voice slurring as if drunk. "Sodding Christ,  _Reggie_."  
  
Birch hums in agreement, pleased that he's managed to crack a little of that inbred propriety of Haytham's, and lets Haytham's arm go so he can slide two of his fingers in alongside his tongue, spreading his spit around, massaging in long, slow strokes until Haytham's hole begins to relax invitingly. Most of Haytham's weight is on the desk now, as if he couldn't move even should he desire to, as if he's forgotten he even can. Birch presses harder, deeper, feels the pads of his fingers discover the spot he seeks and presses down. Haytham convulses into an arch and swears again, harshly, and fumbles the jar of grease he had been in the process of hunting for into Birch's hands.  
  
"Reggie!" he says, as urgently as Birch has ever heard him, and as much as he would like to continue, the sound of Haytham, usually so precise, and his clumsy hand pushing the jar of grease at Birch in wordless demand, is remarkable enough to drive Birch's own need to the fore. He releases him, drops the jar to the table and lets Haytham struggle to wrestle himself out of his coat and then his waistcoat before Birch has managed to find his feet and wrench the placket of his breeches open enough to push his under garments down in order to free his hard, eager cock. Then it is a but a moment's work to open up the jar, scoop out some of the grease and coat himself and press himself home while Haytham is still attempting to struggle out of his shirt.  
  
The noise Haytham makes then is every bit as satisfying as the hot, tight push into his body.  
  
"Damned bloody  _madge_!" he grates in protest a moment later, clenching around Birch, panting through the initial intrusion as Birch waits, for he's learned through experience that Haytham is only here because he wishes to be and that to press further now would be to invite a sudden painful rejection that has, in the past, resulted in broken bones not Haytham's.  
  
"Gentle, my love," Birch tells him sweetly, and he is both joking and not, for it is always the same. Their closeness, their oneness of mind, of purpose, is the structure upon which almost all Birch's ambitions are built, but it only ever strikes him as truly complete in carnal moments such as this.  
  
"Don't speak to me like I'm a bloody woman," Haytham snaps. "Or I'll break your damnable..."  
  
He trails off, somewhat due to the fact that Birch has trailed a hand around to wrap about Haytham's rigid cock and has begun stroking, the grease still slicking his hand making the slide of it a no-doubt blissful action against which Haytham, even intensely annoyed, has no defence.  
  
"Mmm, now that is better," Birch murmurs, plastering himself against the length of Haytham's back, stroking him in the front in long, firm sweeps until Haytham is shifting with increasing urgency into his fist, and then, naturally, back into the cradle of Birch's hips. "Isn't it?"  
  
"Yes," Haytham stutters out breathlessly, of a sudden focused far more on his pleasure than his displeasure. "Harder, you lacklustre wantwit, you damnable jobbernowl, you- Ngh!"   
  
Birch is, in his way, quite good at following orders, and does as instructed, thrusting so hard it near lifts Haytham's feet from the floor, near makes his own eyes roll back in his head, and suddenly neither of them seem to have terribly much to say on the subject for several good long moments, during which Birch thoroughly enjoys the rolling thrusts of their hips upon each other's, the sound of their slapping flesh and the small gasps and grunts they both cannot help but utter, until he feels that familiar tightness of strained desire in the pit of his stomach, in his balls, the base of his spine, between his thighs. He presses himself closer and clutches Haytham at his hip, the better to hold him steady as he pistons into him, his free hand groping upon his chest, dimly recognising that there is something there which hangs from around Haytham's neck under his shirt that swings and bumps Birch's arm as they rock against each other and the desk. It is the amulet that not many hours past adorned the neck of a man now dead by his command and Haytham's hand. Birch clutches it, leaning upon Haytham's back, putting his mouth near his ear as he does and squeezing his cock almost too firmly, his thumb brushing cruelly across the crown.  
  
"Mine," he breathes harshly, twining the amulet's leather cord around his fist, shortening its length and closing it closer and closer around Haytham's throat. "Say it.  _Mine_."  
  
The cord is likely alarmingly tight now, but Haytham does not move his hands from where they clutch at the edge of the desk to anchor him against Birch's thrusts, and he shudders as Birch breathes the demand against his ear, a ripple that takes his whole body from tip to tail.  
  
"Yours," he gasps. "Yes!"  
  
"Then give it to me," Birch grins hotly, and ducks his head bites down upon Haytham's neck where the cord is cutting gently into Haytham's flesh, and Haytham makes a sound, a desperate, almost distressed groan of a sound. His body bucks beneath Birch once, and then his cock is spurting its fluid out upon Birch's hand and Birch's blotter and Birch's desk and Birch cannot care, for the grip upon him as Haytham rides out his little death pulls Birch into the abyss with him, a blinding crash of pleasure that steals his sense, his reason, his breath as surely as if the amulet was about his own neck.  
  
Sense returns at the fluttering press of Haytham's fingers upon his hand urging him to release the cord, and when Birch does, Haytham slumps as if dead and lies flat upon the desk merely breathing deep, unhindered breaths again while in a fit of uncharacteristic affection Birch smooths his hair gently back from the side of his sweaty face. Haytham keeps it tied back as is the fashion with many soldiers of his class and age, but very recent activities have seen much of it come undone, and Birch finds himself wondering what he might have to do or pay or whom he might have to kill in order to convince Haytham to leave it free, or to see it spread upon a fine satin pillow beneath Haytham's head in Birch's bed.  
  
But such genteel things are not for them, not now and perhaps not ever, and Haytham would likely laugh at him if he suggested it – although more likely he would question Birch's sanity and perhaps have him replaced as the head of the Order to save any further trouble. He really is quite a remarkable man, Birch thinks, and he has not regretted his decision to adopt him into the Order in many, many years.  
  
"Come," he sighs, and carefully pulls himself from the wet clutch of Haytham's body. "Come, my dear. No doubt Johan has fixed a hot bath by now and you are a right mess."  
  
Haytham cracks an eye open to glare at him, and Birch tries ever so hard not to laugh in response.  
  
"Yes, and who might be responsible for that?" he demands archly, pushing himself upright with apparent effort and turning to lean heavily upon the desk so he can begin to reach down and pull his boots and what remains of his breeches off.  
  
Birch adopts as innocent an expression as he knows how, and then sighs and tucks himself back into his own breeches before bending down to assist.  
  
"I dare say we are, as usual, about as responsible as each other," he observes mildly. "You will, after all, wave a red flag in front of the bull."  
  
"Bull, is it?" Haytham remarks, an eyebrow arching as his gaze drops to Birch's groin. Birch grins up at him and drops his boot to the floor and reaches for the other. "I think you're over-estimating your efficacy."  
  
Birch drops the other boot and raises himself up to plant a kiss upon Haytham's surprised mouth. They do not tend towards this kind of intimacy either but Birch finds he likes it very well indeed, particularly the momentary soft look that comes upon Haytham's expression.  
  
"Oh, I don't think I am," he disagrees, and holds the amulet on its cord aloft between them.  
  
Haytham blinks at it in surprise and then favours him with an almost disapproving look, one that might have worked better if he was also trying not to smile.  
  
"Ah, it seems you found it," he says lightly. "I  _thought_  I had it somewhere."  
  
Birch laughs and flicks the amulet up into his hand.  
  
"Next time," he suggests, "perhaps you would like just to hand it to me?"  
  
Haytham only favours him with a disgusted look as he skims out of his ruined breeches and turns and starts heading for the stairs leading up to the residence's bed rooms.  
  
"Now, Reggie," he says, and Birch stares at the backs of his slender legs beneath the hem of his shirt and fancies he can see leavings of his issue gleaming on Haytham's thighs. The idea makes his cock stir again, a painful twitch that he is in no way capable of encouraging at this point. "Where would be the fun in that?"  
  
"Where indeed," Birch agrees, and follows, a master after his hound, although truthfully, sometimes Birch knows it is likely more the other way around.


End file.
